


Again

by buckybleeds



Series: Alphabet Soup [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dehumanization, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-consensual Medical Procedures, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 13:18:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: You train a dog through repetition.





	Again

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm like five years late to the HYDRA trash party but I belong in a dumpster.   
> This is my first HTP fic and also my first 5+1 but it didn't start out that way intentionally it just happened (i dunno, five times people took it upon themselves to tear bucky apart and one time someone put him back together or something)  
> Come hang out with me on tumblr and shout prompts at me because I don't know where the trash party hangs out these days. I'm @buckybleeds on twitter, tumblr, and IG.

1949

Bucky Barnes knew he wouldn't die here. Not like this, not on his knees with hands on his body and blood on his teeth. He'd live. He'd live. He'd live.

He'd keep going because he had to.

He'd gotten up off that fucking table and run through fire. He'd been pulled out of the snow and dragged through ice.

He'd live through this. He'd survive. He'd get up and keep moving.

Again.

 

1963

Soldat knew his purpose. He was the lathe upon which the world was turned, scraping order out of chaos a sliver at a time. Soldat did great deeds but knew better than to think he was great. No man was great in isolation; it was solidarity and purpose that made greatness. Power without humility was tyranny, so Soldat was humble.

His comrades were celebrating. The world had turned and they had made it happen. They deserved a moment of levity in the midst of their momentous work.

Soldat breathed deeply through his nose as the man in front of him pulled back far enough to clear his airway. The man behind him thrust forward hard and the air was cut off. No matter. Soldat knew he didn't need to breathe, not so soon. He could be strong for his comrades, support them in their hour of triumph.

Power without humility was tyranny. Soldat was power personified; it was right for him to be humbled, to show that there was balance to the world. Order.

The men who held him in place finished their celebration. Two more comrades stepped forward, raising a bottle between them. Soldat breathed while he could and prepared to show his humility.

Again.

 

 

1978

The Winter Soldier stared in awe at the halo of sunlight trapped by the handler's hair. Sharp blue eyes peered out from a golden face. White teeth. His fingers were warm where they delicately traced over the sharp bones of the Winter Soldier's face. 

The handler was strong and upright and had a sneer on his face, his hands gripped harder - fingers digging into the hinge of the soldier's jaw to pull him closer, open him for use.

The handler is cruel. The handler is harsh. The handler is golden and blue and makes him think of cotton candy but he doesn't know what cotton candy is or why his stomach is swooping and his mouth is watering and he hatesloveshates the handler he needs to get away, goddamnit but he's waiting for someone who is he waiting for there's fire between them and smoke around them and behind the handler there's an American flag fairly radiating light and he can feel the rough fibers of the carpet with his fingers and feel velvet-soft skin on his tongue and his surroundings are drowned in the ringing of his ears and

and

and

and

malfunction

and

malfunction

 

The handler smiled at him, after. Tucked his hair behind his ear and said he thinks they'll get along very well.

and

and

and

though the handler doesn't notice the Winter Soldier malfunctions.

Again.

 

1991

The Soldier shivered in a soft bed. It had reported its successful mission, it was prepared for maintenance. But still, it shivered. 

The handler had sandy hair that had started to slide into gray, soft hands, and the remnants of beauty fading into craggy, stern features with age. 

Without the flush of youth his face was nothing more than the immodest cover for the bones upon which it was hung, gimlet-eyed and hungry as his gaze traced the Soldier's form. 

"Get yourself ready for me."

The Soldier pressed its feet flat against the bed, spreading its legs. It had been given a tube of slick gel that it used to wet two fingers before it reached between its legs and pressed into its hole, relentlessly stretching itself and relaxing the muscles to avoid causing harm to the handler. 

"Do you know what you did today, Sweetheart?"

The Soldier did not speak. Speaking was against protocol. It disrupted the order of things for weapons to speak to people. 

"Of course you don't. You're just a stupid, pretty thing. Do you know you're lovely?"

Other than the wet noise of a third finger breaching its hole the Soldier was silent. 

"You don't know anything," the handler said, rising from his chair to kneel over the Soldier. He batted its hands away and shoved its thighs up until its knees were nearly at its shoulders. "You don't know anything at all," the handler growled, lining the head of his cock up with its wetted pink hole, "but still, you changed the future."

And as the handler pushed inside of it the Soldier felt only the vague sense that it wasn't supposed to be in the future alone. 

Soon enough it felt nothing. 

Again.

 

2013

When it was brought back from some godforsaken patch of desert occupied by the bodies of the dead and the wailing of the living the Asset required cleaning.

Its commander brought it to the technicians, who wiped it down and flushed its insides with impersonal efficiency. 

The Asset didn't have feelings, the Asset didn't have thoughts. The Asset did as it was told and stayed where it was put. If that meant it sometimes kept its mouth open for a handler to warm himself or that it could be laid on its back and covered with roses as the centerpiece of a gala, so be it. The Asset neither liked nor disliked being used, it simply was. 

Until the technicians had finished their cleaning and the commander had arranged it to be easily mounted and snapped thick restraints closed before dropping a photo of a blonde man, pale and blue with cold, under its face and sliding inside of it. 

From then until it was wiped the Asset was briefly a man, the way the commander liked it best: writhing, furious, helpless, and about to forget. 

Again. 

 

Now

Bucky Barnes didn't scream his way out of nightmares these days. He woke up with his lips bitten bloody and his remaining fist clenched, but at least he woke up silent. 

Usually he didn't know where he was but that didn't matter so much because, silent or not, when he was roused by a nightmare it also roused Steve. 

And if Bucky was confused or angry or sobbing too hard to talk that didn't matter either. 

However he woke up Steve would sit with him until the room got light and help him gather up the broken pieces of his mind and, bit by bit, they'd put him back together. 

Again.


End file.
